The Dying Place (20 page)

‘Seems all right. Bit smarmy, I suppose. He’d shit his pants if we turned the screw a little. All bravado.’

Rossi nodded, a smile creeping onto her face.

‘That’s not to say we’ll be doing that, Laura. As much as I know how you like taking the piss out of men like this.’

‘Spoilsport.’

They stopped outside Thornhill’s office, Murphy knocking loud and hard enough that the door rattled in the frame.

‘Come in.’

Murphy let himself inside, followed by Rossi, who took a moment to look around the small office whilst Murphy walked briskly across and shook the proffered hand of Kevin Thornhill. Once, up and down, firm. He sat down on the same seat as he had the day before and waited for Rossi to finish looking at the various photographs and certificates adorning the walls, before sitting down herself.

Murphy waited a few seconds for the silence to grow around them, Thornhill staring back at them with a growing look of confusion on his face.

‘Sorry … how can I help? I did tell you everything I know yesterday.’

Murphy nodded. ‘Yes, I’m sure you did. Only now, we have a bit more information.’

‘Where’s Tony today?’ Thornhill said, his gaze switching to Rossi and giving her the quick once-over Murphy had grown accustomed to. ‘Although I’m not complaining about his replacement.’

‘I’m sure you’re not, Mr Thornhill,’ Rossi replied, shaking her head. ‘I’m Detective Sergeant Rossi. DS Brannon is hard at work back at the station, helping us find out who murdered Dean Hughes.’

Thornhill’s expression went from leering smirk to grave in a millisecond. ‘Of course …’

‘We’re here as we have a bit of new information since our last meeting,’ Murphy said. ‘We were hoping you’d be as helpful as last time.’

Thornhill threw his hands up. ‘Of course, of course. Anything you need to know. Although I’m not sure what else I can tell you …’

‘Do you have people come in to the youth club regularly to talk to the kids?’

‘I wouldn’t say regularly,’ Thornhill replied, his hands now clasped together. ‘Every now and again we have various people, charitable types from local businesses, come in and give some advice or guidance. Helps the older ones who have left school and can’t find a job. We don’t do any of that jobcentre rubbish about CVs and that, but it gives them something to work towards.’

Murphy pursed his lips together, looking towards Rossi who was busy writing everything down in her notebook. ‘Anyone else?’

Thornhill made a show of thinking on his answer, tapping the edge of his desk with his forefingers. ‘Sometimes we have someone come in, like an ex-prisoner or something. Someone who has turned their life around. Inspirational to the more
troubled
teen we get here. But that’s all very well-organised, so there’s no problems or anything.’

‘How about religious types? You’re situated directly behind a church. Does that type of thing go on?’ Murphy said, watching every move the increasingly nervous Thornhill made.

‘No. We have a policy that we don’t have anything like that here. We’d lose the kids’ attention, for one thing. No, we don’t have any of that going on.’

‘Right. I have to ask, Kevin, because we’ve been hearing some stories. Can you tell me about a man who talks regularly here?’

Thornhill wiped a hand across his brow. ‘I’m not sure who you’re talking about …’

‘I think you do,’ Murphy replied, staring across the desk. ‘One who comes in every few weeks or so. Very evangelical, so I’ve heard …’

There was silence for a few seconds, as Thornhill sweated a little more. ‘I’m not sure I know who you mean …’

‘I think you do, Kevin,’ Rossi said, without looking up from her notepad.

Thornhill’s shoulders slumped a little. Acceptance, Murphy hoped.

‘Okay. But, please, he’s one of our biggest donors. Without him, we wouldn’t be able to stay open.’

Murphy leant back in the chair. ‘Don’t worry. We’ll make sure we’re careful.’

‘He’s harmless really. He just made it a stipulation of his annual donation. I didn’t think there was anything wrong with it really. He just wanted to talk to them every few weeks or so. Okay … sometimes it could be a little uncomfortable, but it wasn’t like I had Jimmy Savile here. He was just … what’s the word …’

‘Passionate?’ Murphy said.

‘That’s right.’

‘What was he talking about exactly?’

Thornhill sighed, now slumped a little in his chair. ‘Just how things were back in his day, the importance of respect. That kind of thing.’ The last part was almost mumbled, Thornhill’s voice growing quieter by the second.

‘Okay,’ Murphy replied, sitting forward and placing his hands on the desk. ‘I’m going to need you to be more specific than that. Did you even listen to what he used to say?’

‘Of course I did.’

‘Well then, what would he say? Why would it make people … children, for the most part, uncomfortable?’

Another large sigh from opposite the desk. ‘Because he was quite forthright in his views. It would get a bit … heated. This guy is very sure of his convictions.’

‘And what are they?’

‘Well – and understand this isn’t a view shared across the board – that kids needed more discipline. That we needed to be harder on them. Sometimes he said some things that went a bit far, but I had a word with him and he toned it down.’

‘What’s his name?’ Murphy said.

‘Alan Bimpson.’

Murphy made sure Rossi wrote the name down, mentally logging it himself. It didn’t ring any bells with him, but Liverpool was a big city.

‘What’s he do?’

Thornhill shook his head. ‘I don’t know. He mentioned property development, but nothing more than that. I think I have a number somewhere.’ He began shifting through paperwork on his desk.

Murphy looked towards Rossi and raised his eyebrows. Received a shake of her head in return.

Thornhill scribbled a number onto a scrap of paper and handed it over to Murphy, Rossi reaching over and snatching it before Murphy even had a chance to lose it.

‘Good, thanks for that. If we need anything more, we’ll let you know.’

‘I want to help, I really do. I’m just worried about the youth club, that’s all,’ Thornhill said, his hands clasped together. ‘We’re like a family here. It’s important to me.’

Murphy eyed the photographs on Thornhill’s desk. ‘I understand that. But this is a serious investigation …’

Thornhill raised his hands up. ‘I know, of course. It’s just … you do anything for family … you just hope it works both ways.’

They showed themselves out, Murphy putting sunglasses on as the sun decided to show itself.

‘What do you make of him?’ Murphy said, getting into the car.

‘Shifty. Definitely hiding something. Also, unquestionably a tits man, rather than an arse one.’

Murphy sniggered and started the car up. His feeling matched Rossi’s, apart from the arse thing. Thornhill was hiding something, his gut told him so.

He just had no clue what it could be.

18

Murphy drove Rossi back to the station, leaving her with instructions to have as many people as possible look into the whereabouts of Alan Bimpson. Murphy left the car behind the station, opting to walk into town rather than trying to find an overpriced parking space. It was a ten-minute walk at most from there towards Liverpool ONE shopping centre, past the old museum and the back of St George’s Hall, down Whitechapel and the main bus station. Town was busy, even for a Tuesday. A mix of suits, both professional and track, and smart skirts and short shorts. Those working and on their lunch breaks, others not working, a day off, a week perhaps, just to get some shopping done. Tourists being conned into another Beatles-themed souvenir shop. Or the unemployed, looking for something to do.

Murphy walked past yet another new shop, this one apparently offering designer clothes at discounted prices – the day it was shut down by trading standards nearing by the second – the McDonald’s on the corner already looking like it needed another refit less than a year since the last one, and turned right. He was heading towards the northern part of town, where the buildings became older, where the office workers were found. The old merchant buildings now housing insurance firms, estate agents and shipping companies barely hanging in there.

The cafe on the corner opposite the courts was busy, but Murphy managed to find a table near the back. One of those new bistro type places which, bizarrely, had an alcohol licence. The sight of a worn-out bloke in an expensive suit chugging on a bottle of Corona turned Murphy’s stomach, so he stuck with a coffee, pretending to read the menu for something to eat.

‘Was hoping I’d beat you here. Now I’ll have to sit with my back out to people.’

Jess plonked herself down opposite a smirking Murphy. ‘I’ve come from further away as well. No excuses.’

‘Is it table service?’

Murphy nodded and stuck a hand up to get a waitress’s attention. The same one never served you twice for some reason. A bouncy young girl came over, all smiles and sunshine. ‘What can I get ya?’

Jess ordered a coffee, which received a blank look in return. ‘What kind?’ the bouncy girl replied.

‘Just coffee.’

‘Yeah, but we do all different kinds.’

Murphy sipped on his own latte, trying not to laugh as he watched Jess become more irate.

‘Just coffee-flavoured coffee.’

‘Ask for a latte, Jess,’ Murphy said, growing bored of the exchange.

‘I don’t want a latte, I want a coffee.’

‘Americano?’

Jess sighed, admitting defeat. ‘That’ll do. And a tuna mayo sandwich.’

The bouncy girl did what she did best and bounced off.

‘How’s the murder going?’

Murphy laughed as the man on the next table almost choked on his bottle of lager. ‘Inside voice, Jess.’

‘Yeah, yeah,’ she replied, checking the sugar bowl with the spoon left in there and rolling her eyes. ‘Well?’

‘Few interesting lines of enquiry. Hopefully we’ll have it sorted soon enough.’ Murphy always lied when talking about his cases. Especially to those around him. The idea that he would tell them the truth – that the case was becoming more and more fragmented by the day – was ridiculous.

‘Good.’

‘So what’s going on then? I need to speak to that son of yours I gather …’

‘Sarah spoke to you then?’

Murphy eyed Jess before taking another sip of his latte. ‘Of course. Isn’t that what you’d hope would happen?’

‘I guess,’ Jess replied, moving her purse so a different waitress to the bouncy girl could lay her cup of coffee on the table. She emptied in a packet of sugar she retrieved from the next table. ‘I just don’t know what to do about him.’

‘You’re doing the best you can. It’s not like his dad is helping matters much.’

‘I know. I just don’t want him going down a bad path. I can see it happening. He’s smoking weed, I know that much.’

Murphy raised his eyebrows. ‘Really?’

‘They all do it these days. It’s not like we can say anything, is it?’

Murphy tutted then nodded his head. ‘Guess not. Still …’

‘You don’t want them making the same mistakes you did, I know, I know.’

‘There’s more though?’

Jess stirred her coffee for longer than required, staring into the cup under Murphy’s gaze. ‘I think so, yes. I’m not sure though. I overheard him talking to one of his mates on the phone. Laughing about someone being hurt or something. I couldn’t really tell. I don’t want him becoming one of those lads, Bear.’

‘What did you hear exactly?’

Jess dropped the spoon on the saucer and began blowing softly on the coffee, the steam dissipating above it. ‘I heard him say “did you see his face when I smacked him”, then laughing.’

Murphy mused for a few seconds. Could be just a typical teenage boy, looking for something to do, boredom setting in. Fighting was something everyone seemed to get into around certain areas. ‘You don’t know the whole story though, Jess. No need to jump to conclusions yet.’

‘Yeah, well I’d rather nip it in the bud now, you know. I think a strong word from his Uncle David is in order.’ She smiled, finally looking across the table at Murphy. He saw now the tiredness behind her eyes. Not only from her job – a defence lawyer in the city – but weariness. She’d coped on her own for almost twenty years.

He could share the burden a little.

‘Where will he be now?’

Murphy pulled up to Jess’s house, a detached three-bedroom new-build in Crosby, to the north of the city. He checked his watch, the afternoon now in full swing as it got closer to two p.m.

He shouldn’t be doing this … there was all kinds going on at the station, but he was out there, checking on a seventeen-year-old with an attitude.

Priorities as excellent as ever.

He checked his phone was on – Rossi was on strict instructions to phone him the second there was any movement – and got out of the car. He could already hear the music before reaching the gate leading up to the house. The bass was surely deafening the neighbours if they were home, threatening to dislodge the brickwork. Murphy shook his head and carried on walking, the perfectly manicured front lawn the work of a gardener rather than the able-bodied male who lay within. Maybe Jess was too lackadaisical with discipline, he thought, preparing himself for the door not to be opened on the first try. He banged against it, the noise echoing around the small close.

He counted to ten, then tried once more.

Three more tries and he began to circle the house, finding the boy on his first move. Through the blinds looking into the living room, Murphy saw him sprawled out on the couch, PlayStation controller in his hand, open can of lager on the carpeted floor near his head.

Murphy rapped on the window a few times, Peter not exactly springing to life when he finally noticed him peering in through the window. The music was switched off as Murphy walked back to the door.

‘Uncle David. What are you doing here? Mum’s at work.’

Bleary-eyed, hair unkempt, pointing at odd angles. Murphy wasn’t sure if he’d just woken up or if it was intentional.

‘Came around to see you, Peter,’ Murphy replied, stepping past him into the house. He heard the door close behind him as he entered the living room. The game was paused on the big-screen TV in the corner of the room, a frozen image of some cartoony character with a gun.